


Kingmaker

by valderys



Category: Being Human
Genre: Alternate Universe, Community: werewolfbigbang, Established Relationship, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-14
Updated: 2011-01-14
Packaged: 2017-10-14 18:20:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/152107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valderys/pseuds/valderys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In Nightshift, the supernatural police-force, every agent is paired with his canine Cwn Annwn companion. But George and Mitchell have no ordinary partnership, and one full moon their special bond is tested to the limit - until, in the end, maybe the only person who can save them is their new friend - the ghost girl, Annie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kingmaker

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Werewolfbigbang, and with many influences - there are hints of Ladyhawke, Night Watch, A Companion to Wolves, Dogsbody, The Little Mermaid, and others!

They were the Nightshift. Or at least, that was the closest translation that anyone had managed to come up with, into English at any rate. Mitchell loved it. He’d used the flippant comment in the pub a hundred times, “Yeah, I’m off to work the Nightshift,” and not one in a thousand would understand what he really meant.

There were rapists, murderers, thieves, and in fact scum of all kinds, on the loose every single day. There were some right bastards in the world, frankly, but it wasn’t Mitchell’s problem. Well, not since 1918 anyway. No, dealing with stuff like that was the province of the Dayshift - and the police, FBI, MI5 what have you. It wasn’t anything to do with Mitchell. It didn’t stop it being dangerous, mind, and he had his respect for such members of the Dayshift and other organisations. It just wasn’t his responsibility. Not any more.

No, his particular stamping ground was after dark, in the shadows, policing what seethed in the cracks of the world. There was plenty to keep him occupied, and it all wanted to eat, curse or fuck with everything else. If there wasn’t an organisation like the Nightshift keeping the supernatural world under some kind of control, there’d be much worse collateral damage than the odd nightmare, or a few grim fairy-tales. That was Mitchell’s job. Protecting the world from the scum of the universe. He’d rather liked the film Men in Black - they’d had the right idea, if the wrong paradigm. And Mitchell did so enjoy wearing black.

He was on patrol on the east side of Bristol, by the river. The sky was clear, stars twinkling away, but there were also a hundred delicate aromas perfuming the air, to Mitchell’s enhanced senses. The rotting latex from the condom under the bank, the sweetish odour of a fox’s kill, overlain with its own scent, a heavy rank peppermint. The sharp metallic smell of the goblin burrow in the hedge. Mitchell sneezed and then wiped his nose on one of his fingerless gloves. He had nothing personal against goblins, intellectually, but to one of his ancestry they just smelled _wrong_. Still, that was why he had training after all. Far be it for Mitchell to step all over species politics with his size 11 boots, because _he_ was just another bloke out for a stroll, late at night.

Which might in and of itself have been suspicious, to ordinary humans at least, as the Council was well aware. So Mitchell had a partner, just like the manual dictated. He glanced down at George who breathed in heavily, huffing in something not quite like a sigh, before pulling on his lead. People were a lot less suspicious of a man out late at night... who was walking his dog. Mitchell paused for a moment and that let George lay his heavy head against Mitchell’s knee, before casting one eye upward in a manner Mitchell knew meant that George was bored out of his tiny skull. Mitchell sympathised, but patrol wasn’t something they could get out of, not unless they sucked up to their nest leader, and that wasn’t something Mitchell was prepared to do - not for something so unimportant as getting out of patrol. Herrick had his foibles, and his favourites, and while he liked Mitchell, there was no need to push it. More than that, it could be dangerous to draw attention to themselves and both George and Mitchell knew it.

George sighed again, and Mitchell allowed himself to trail a hand down his back, feeling the soft fur under his fingers, and the slight static of the illusion spell, that was almost impossible to detect unless you knew it was there. He even let himself reach up to George’s ears, and scratch behind them. George whuffled his nose into Mitchell’s leg in appreciation. They got so few moments like this that were entirely peaceful, and solitary, it was worth enjoying them when they came.

Then George froze, and his silky ears pricked, his head turning. Mitchell’s sense of smell was on a par with George’s, but his hearing was nowhere near as good.

“What is it?” he whispered, and then shut up, knowing silence would help better to pinpoint the problem, and also knowing that it wasn’t as if George could really answer. He looked like a large black Labrador to ordinary eyes, but that was the illusion. Although he was still a dog, at least, but nothing as friendly and comforting as a black lab, none of the Cwn Annwn were.

Then George lifted his muzzle and howled, a complicated signal for the rest of his pack, scattered around Bristol on their own patrols. The hair on the back of Mitchell’s arms rose at the sound, and he wanted to bare his teeth, until he restrained himself. One of the magical abilities of the sky dogs was that their cries sounded louder in the distance than they did closer to - a good trick, and useful for keeping their cover. It still set Mitchell on edge however, fight or flight kicking in, his blood racing, and it scared him. As a vampire, he was always fighting for self-control.

Then George was off, dragging at his lead, and Mitchell thought he might slip it free, and allow George his full rein, except that he was terrified that he would be left behind. There wasn’t much that set the Cwn Annwn off in this way, and Mitchell wanted to be there when the pack converged. Just in case.

They raced with the wind, only the camouflage spell keeping George’s paws on the ground and preventing him from rising up into the streamers and wisps of clouds that were starting to race above him. The sky fairies loved racing with the Cwn Annwn - one reason they were called sky dogs - but Mitchell couldn’t let them, not now; it wasn’t even Beltane or All Hallows Eve. The humans could explain away a lot of things in their own minds, especially at the right time, but there were limits. And today of all days, with the full moon tomorrow night, there was no way that Mitchell was letting George go off by himself. There was no way he was even letting him out of his sight. Instead, Mitchell wound the leather lead around his fist twice and merely hung on.

The pack was converging on an obscure street in a quiet residential area, in Totterdown. It made Mitchell relax in one way, because some of the more terrible creatures - banshees, kelpies, ogres, that kind of thing - were very unlikely to be manifesting unremarked in the suburbs. On the other hand, it also worried him, because most things that set the Cwn Annwn off were large, vicious or dangerous - and if this wasn’t? He had a bad feeling that there was really only one possible candidate...

Sometimes Mitchell hated being right. The pack was converging on an unremarkable pink house and their cries were escalating, past the point where humans were able to hear them, which was a small mercy. It was late in the evening, but Mitchell could see that some of his fellow Nightshift were putting glamours up, just in case. Some of the hounds were straining at their leads, although George, now that he was actually here, had calmed down and merely exuded a kind of trembling eagerness.

Then suddenly there was a meaty blow to Mitchell’s back - and through long habits of restraint and rigid self-control, Mitchell did not turn and attack. There was only one person who it was likely to be, who liked to push his boundaries like this, so instead Mitchell turned his head with a carefully arranged smile on his face.

“Good to see you, Mitchell. It’s been too long,” said Herrick heartily, his voice booming, his bonhomie, as ever, overflowing to unpleasant levels. Mitchell’s skin crawled, as it always did, but the tug was there too; a sort of sick attraction. Herrick was Mitchell’s Sire, and the ties of blood were not to be denied.

“Yeah, you too - you know how it is,” Mitchell offered, feebly, and then shrugged in the hopes of loosening Herrick’s grip across his shoulder. George was showing his teeth, but luckily not growling, and Mitchell shifted a hand to the nape of his neck in warning. It wouldn’t do to upset Herrick. He was powerful. Much more so than Mitchell, as he was so much older, plus with connections too. Not someone to piss off. Not to mention what was hardly an incidental detail - he was Nest Captain, and their boss.

“Of course I know, Mitchell,” Herrick was saying, “Work, feed, patrol - work, feed, patrol. That’s just you all over. There’s just no time to smell the roses, now is there? Shame. We miss you at departmental meetings.”

Mitchell was opening his mouth to try and explain away his inability to be a ‘team player’ when the hounds all fell silent. He swallowed instead. His attention, along with everybody’s, became riveted on the pink house.

Then came the sound. Like the opposite of a large church bell, or the noise of a gong. A sort of hollow echoing, empty imploding chime, a sound of eternity and despair. The Cwn Annwn all began whining at once, and strained towards the pink house.

Herrick smiled at Mitchell and raised his eyebrows, in a ‘what can you do’ kind of way, but let him go at last. Mitchell felt like he could breathe again. Then Herrick strode over to the house, to its ordinary front door, and made a pass over the lock, magically picking it. He threw it wide, sniffed disdainfully at the contents, and then disappeared inside. Mitchell heaved a sigh, because however unpleasant Herrick’s company might be when he was full of bonhomie and indulgence, it was infinitely preferable to what the poor sod who’d just woken up was going to face.

It felt like the moment in time just before a storm, when the whole world was still, glassy, waiting for that first crack of thunder. The reality was much more mundane. Herrick appeared, with one sleeve rolled up, a look of distaste on his face, and his hand dripping water. He held a balled-up piece of cloth which he then shook out, spattering water droplets across the pavement, before letting it dangle from his hand, negligently. It was only then that Mitchell realised what it was - the sad remnants of a torn lace thong. It looked pathetic and forlorn in Herrick’s uncaring hand.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” Herrick called, his face beaming and round, enjoying himself.

Mitchell knew what would happen now. He’d seen it before. Herrick had a kind of avidity on his face, as though watching this was going to give him some twisted satisfaction, or nourishment, as much as feeding did. It just made Mitchell sick to his stomach.

There was movement in the doorway of the pink house, a hint of grey, a glimmer of white. Mitchell let out his breath in a sigh as the... ghost hovered on the step. She’d been a pretty girl before she’d died, it was easy to see that, young and cheerful, he decided. She had the terminally lost look of those who had died both by violence and suddenly, and the torn thong that was her material link to the world told its own sad story. Mitchell’s heart flipped in his chest. This was far worse than feeding. She’d died once already and Herrick was even now preparing to end her new second existence at the jaws of the Cwn Annwn, whose original purpose had been to tear and harry damned souls to Hell. But Mitchell couldn’t intervene and he wasn’t prepared to watch. He turned away as much as he dared.

“Hello,” said the girl, “My name’s Annie. Annie Sawyer, I don’t really understand... Have you seen Owen? He’s not here and the house is different, and we’d just moved in and we were going to get married... So. I wondered, have you seen him?” Her voice was wavering but still stronger than such shades usually were. Confused, but not incoherent and half mad.

Herrick chuckled and held out the thong. “Oh, I don’t think you want Owen, do you? Not seeing as he was the one to murder you? Oh, unless you swing that way, in which case, be my guest - or perhaps not.” He walked towards her, swinging the sad scrap of fabric hypnotically. “This is your second end of the line, love. Sorry about that. But the puppies want their exercise, don’t they? And who am I to deny them... what comes naturally?”

Mitchell closed his eyes, knowing Herrick would give the order to release the pack in a matter of seconds. It was a game to him. Just another power trip. But then, suddenly, George gave a kind of shiver, like he was steeling himself for something, and then with a loud bark, shot forward. Mitchell’s grip on the lead had slackened in his disgust and despair, and he didn’t react nearly in time. George was able to rip himself free and darted forward like a streak of black lightning just before Herrick gave the order to attack. Mitchell was horrified - what was George thinking, drawing Herrick’s attention to them like that?

Then Mitchell swallowed. There was something else going on here. George stood before the steps to that ordinary pink house, with its pathetic little ghostling hovering in the doorway, and he snarled. His hackles were raised high, his tail and ears were flat, and his jaw dripped foam. There was an unearthly light in his eyes, a hint of the Cwn Annwn’s true form showing through, and then, still growling continually, George swung his head slowly until he had exchanged glances with every single member of the pack.

“Well, go and get her then,” Herrick ordered them at last, seeming exasperated, or perhaps not realising the extent of George’s actions. “It’s only _George_.” And then he stared right at Mitchell, as though daring him to say something, a smirk twisting his mouth.

Helplessly Mitchell spread his fingers wide, his fingerless gloves pulling at the skin, in a kind of shrug, which was as much of a denial as he could make without quite lying or attempting some confrontation with Herrick, which he was extremely keen to avoid. At least until he understood what was going on. Then he made his way gingerly through the now silent pack to George’s side. Was Herrick being deliberately obtuse, or was he playing a deeper game? Could he not see that George, by his actions, had made an abrupt bid for pack leadership and that none of the others had even fought him for it? Was there even a precedent for that? A high buzzing whine was affecting Mitchell’s ears as he arrived beside George - he couldn’t even tell if it was magical charge or just stress. Then Mitchell went to touch him, and realised there were cold waves of power radiating from George’s very skin.

Mitchell glanced at Tully, in appearance a bull mastiff, who had been pack leader until a moment ago, and saw him being held back by his partner, Kemp. That was wrong too. Tully should be allowed to fight for his position. Dominance within the pack was extremely important. George shouldn’t have pushed it now, on the job, but since he _had_ \- Tully should have been allowed to meet the challenge. Mitchell was uncomfortable in his own skin, prickles of unease running up and down his arms. There were things going on here, undercurrents that he wasn’t picking up on, and that was dangerous. It could possibly even be fatal. Time enough for that later though, they had to get out of here.

“Come on then, Annie,” Mitchell muttered out of the corner of his mouth, “We’re leaving.”

She looked perplexed, but only a little scared, and Mitchell could tell she didn’t really get it. “I don’t think so. I live here in this house... with Owen.” Her voice faltered. The memories were colliding in her head, Mitchell knew. Herrick could be cruel in lots of ways.

“Not any more. You belong to George. Fuck knows why, but he was willing to fight the pack for you - by every tradition of the Cwn Annwn you’re his now.” Mitchell gestured at the surrounding hounds. “Unless you’d prefer to take your chances with them.”

There was a wisp of a movement, then a gasp before a cool sense of negation, and Mitchell shivered. He realised the ghost girl - Annie - must be hovering at his shoulder, almost within touching range. She felt chilly, like an Autumn mist. At last, Mitchell allowed himself to pay attention to George, let himself tangle his fingers in George’s fur, prepared for the shock of contact but still hanging on. Fuck, Mitchell didn’t even know George _could_ feel this powerful - what was happening to him? And then Mitchell had a horrible premonition. It was something to do with the full moon tomorrow night, wasn’t it? It must be. Peculiar, odd and really fucking dangerous things happening to them? Bound to be moonlight related. Bloody buggering hell.

Mitchell tugged at George’s fur to make him move, not risking the restraint of the lead - yet. And with Annie timidly following them, Mitchell and George left the ring of Nightshift agents and their partners, not even needing to push through - the circle silently opening before them. Some of the hounds, the pack’s weakest members, whined faintly before lying on the ground before George and baring their throats. Herrick too, mockingly, bowed deeply to the three of them as they passed.

“Long live the King,” called Herrick after them, in great good humour, and Mitchell shivered. It was going to be a very long full moon indeed.

***

They went home. Mitchell didn’t know where else to go - they hadn’t burnt all their bridges, after all, not by a long way, just rocked them a bit, so sticking to routine seemed best.

“Not that this is _anything_ like routine,” Mitchell told George, “I don’t know what you were thinking!”

George laid his jaw alongside Mitchell’s hand in apology, and whined lightly. Mitchell sighed.

“I know you’re sorry. But it doesn’t help.” He ran one of George’s silky ears through his fingers. “Don’t worry. We’ll sort something out. We always do.”

“Umm. Excuse me...” Annie seemed to be growing more confident, more _solid_ , with every step. Mitchell approved. At least George hadn’t risked everything for some pathetic wisp who couldn’t even hold their own shape. “You seem to be talking to a dog.”

“Yeah well - appearances can be deceptive. You’re a ghost, George is a Cwn Annwn - a Hound of Hell, or Sky Dog - and I am... Well.” Mitchell looked at her. “Perhaps not everything in one go. We work for Nightshift. And George understands everything I’m saying.”

“But...”

Mitchell held up his hand. They were reaching a Doorway. “I’ll explain things when we’re safe. And you need to see this, so you can use it yourself.”

An entrance to the Nightshift’s Headquarters could be opened wherever an unshriven man had once fallen. In practice, that meant just about anywhere. Mitchell stopped short next to a brick wall, around the corner from the pink house and down the street. There had once been a fatal mugging here, Mitchell thought, he could feel the taste of the man’s fear in the air even after twenty years. He wondered if the man had risen as a ghost like Annie had, and then been torn to pieces by another pack, on another such night. It was impossible to tell, too long ago, and the psychic flavour wasn’t nearly complex enough. It made Mitchell angry though - they’d had a nice little life, he and George, just the two of them, together against the world. It was admittedly not without its dangers, but all of that could have been spoilt by George’s actions tonight. By Annie’s very presence.

Wearily, he explained the trick of it to her, and then led them through the doorway that appeared, that hadn’t been in existence a few seconds before. Annie waited a few moments, hovering there, looking reluctant and scared, before making herself walk through it in the end.

“I don’t know why, since I don’t have a body any more, but it was like walking over my own grave. Although not literally. Oh my god, I could do that now, couldn’t I? Anyway. I don’t think I like your kind of Doorways,” said Annie faintly, and George nosed at her hand too, comforting. While Mitchell refused to feel jealous, because it was ridiculous.

The shimmer of that particular Doorway vanished, leaving just the brick wall behind.

***

“You live in a funeral parlour,” said Annie, disbelief colouring not only her voice but the aura around her to those who could see or feel. “If this is some kind of sick joke, then I don’t appreciate it.”

Mitchell cocked an eyebrow and lounged back on the ratty sofa. Their bed-sitting room had all the comforts of home, as long as you expected them to come wrapped in a magically enhanced and enlarged funeral parlour with a heavy taste for red velvet. All local Nightshift agents and their partners had rooms here, it was Headquarters for the whole of the Bristol Nest. He looked around. Admittedly, he and George could have looked after their particular rooms better, and he’d been meaning to replace certain bits of scruffy furniture - but really, was Annie in any position to complain?

It was obviously necessary to explain how Nightshift worked, and what they did. What they were supposed to keep on doing. Controlling supernatural entities wasn’t an easy job, people got hardened to it, they got callous. But Annie only sniffed at his explanation of her situation, and what she had so narrowly escaped.

“If you think I’m going to take that as any kind of a reason to torment and destroy ghosts who weren’t harming anyone, then you’ve got another think coming.” Annie was striding up and down their sitting-room, and the air was beginning to crackle around her. Mitchell was rather taken aback, and wondered if this was why George had done it, why he had saved her. This wasn’t usual at all, Annie had to be one of the most powerful spirits he’d ever met.

“Some ghosts are dangerous,” he added quietly, trying not to notice that the mugs were rattling on their hooks, “Poltergeists, for instance.” He gave her a pointed look, and she laughed, rather embarrassedly, but things did begin to calm down. Instead, she moved over to the kitchenette and started to move things the normal way, seemingly by habit beginning to make tea.

Maybe this could work, Mitchell thought. Her control was decent, and she seemed to have good instincts. Since she belonged to George now, they’d have to at least make the effort. “George takes two sugars in his,” he said, “And I like mine black.”

He went to help her fill the kettle.

***

“Morning,” said Annie, cheerfully, and deposited another mug next to Mitchell’s bed. He made an incoherent sound that he hoped sounded grateful. It was possible he could get used to this.

“Well, it’s not morning really, not actual _morning_ ,” Annie continued, “It’s more like early evening, dusk even, but it’s morning for us, since we’re Nightshift, and I presume by our very name that we aren’t going to be up to catch the early worm. Maybe the very late worm - does that work as a metaphor? Well, it will have to do. I’ve cleaned. I hope you don’t mind.”

Mitchell groaned. Maybe tea in bed and apparent maid-service wasn’t worth the price he had to pay. He wasn’t much of a morning person, never had been, whatever time he actually got up, and Annie’s inane chatter made it even worse. Then an appalling thought crossed his mind and Mitchell shot up in bed, the sheet pooling in his lap.

“What time is it?”

If his heart could thump it would be doing double time. Fuck, it had been an exhausting night, but surely it wasn’t too late? Surely they weren’t in _even_ more trouble?

“It’s just gone seven in the evening,” said Annie, looking puzzled, her cheeks flushed, if ghosts could be said to have flushed cheeks.

Fuck - bloody bollocking buggeration. “George?” Mitchell shouted, “Get your lazy arse up! We have to go.”

How could he have let things slip like this? It only took one crack in their everyday routines for it all to come crashing down around their ears. Mitchell knew that. _George_ knew that. And here it was only twenty minutes to moonlight and they were still in Headquarters.

He focused on Annie as he tossed aside the covers and threw on some clothes. She was flushed _and_ blinking now. What? Oh... He shook his head, there was no time to explain. He didn’t usually prance about naked, but it was an emergency and also his bedroom. After all, it’s not like he’d ever had to think about such things with George.

The large wicker basket where George slept shifted slightly, and there was a lazy thumping sound as of a heavy tail hitting the side. George put his nose over the basket edge, before deigning to lift himself up and have a good stretch, back legs first, then almost bowing to the floor as he stretched out his front paws. There was a small gasp and Mitchell glanced over to Annie again, as she stared at George. Oh yes, there was that too. He did hope the surprises were all about done for the day, although he didn’t hold out a great deal of hope.

“That’s George’s natural form,” he offered, as he pulled on his jacket and his fingerless gloves.

George grinned, or seemed too, then lolled his tongue out, while panting, obviously pleased with himself. He was a good foot taller at the shoulder like this, than when he was in his Labrador form, and more powerful with it. His coat was short and thick, and shone white like the moon, or like ice, almost glittering with crystal. His head was more pointed, and the jaw heavier; his teeth were pearly and sharp like knives. His ears were the colour of fresh blood, a heavy dark rich red, and his eyes shone yellow as lamps. The effect should have been sinister, Mitchell knew. Other Cwn Hnnwn had made his flesh creep sometimes, but not George. Never George. Mitchell knew too much now about what was happening on the inside, to ever worry about the outside. He was just George.

But now was not the time to explain - they had twenty minutes to moonrise. “We’ve got to go,” he shot at Annie, and then they were out of the door. So much for showing her the ropes. Mitchell fleetingly wondered if she would be all right, left all alone, but really they didn’t have the time to discuss it. She seemed a determined kind of person, for a spirit. She’d be fine.

Mitchell clattered down the stairs, George loping at his side. No time for George’s breakfast, or even a snack for himself. No time at all. There might be many Doorways to take them home, but there was only one Door out of Headquarters, and they headed for it at speed. Their footsteps were quiet now on the thick crimson carpet of the foyer, still decorated like the funeral parlour it had once been. There was some in-joke there, Mitchell was sure, but he wasn’t one of Herrick’s cronies, however much Herrick seemed to wish it, so he wasn’t in on the joke.

Then they came to an abrupt halt, silent in more than their steps. There was a problem. Rather a large problem. Tully had obviously been waiting for them, lying by the front Door, as he was still uncurling and coming to his feet. Still shaking his head from side to side, his growl just beginning to build. It all seemed to take far too long a time. He really was a fine specimen of his species, Mitchell thought, powerful in the shoulder, heavy in the haunches. He wasn’t taller than George, but he was built on broader lines. Shit. They didn’t have time for this.

It didn’t seem to matter to George though, and Mitchell supposed that was fair. None of the Cwn Annwn thought very far ahead, although their intelligence was beyond doubt, it was mitigated by their physical form and instincts. It was one reason why they made such good partners for agents but could never be agents themselves. And right now? George’s instincts were all telling him that he had to defend his position as pack leader. Mitchell would have tried to get him to think with his head and not with his heart if he’d thought it would help. But they _had_ to get through that Door.

Mitchell only hoped that George didn’t get himself killed in the process.

Tully was growling more loudly now, and George was matching it. Both hounds had their hackles up, and as Tully took a pace forward, George did too. Mitchell considered that discretion was the better part of valour and took a step back. Besides, by tradition he wasn’t allowed to interfere. In practice, if he bloody well had to, then he would and damn the consequences – but a sky dog could tear him to pieces if it came to that. Mitchell really hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

They were circling each other now, slowly padding around in an ever tightening orbit. Their eyes, usually a golden colour like a cat’s, were shining like torches, blazing bright in their faces, their glares matched in hate. Mitchell knew George wasn’t exactly impressed by Tully, he was greedy with the bitches, arrogantly cocky, and could be cruel. Mitchell hadn’t ever thought that it would come to this, to a leadership contest, but now as he watched them, he whispered a little prayer for luck, and clutched at the silver necklace he always carried in his pocket on George’s behalf.

Then suddenly, so fast Mitchell almost missed the triggering second, the two hounds flew at each other’s throats. Mitchell ground his teeth and blinked, knowing his eyes had changed colour, darkening in response to the aggression in the atmosphere, to the blood now scenting the air. Then the pair separated just as abruptly, and Mitchell clenched his hands into fists. There was blood on George’s ear. He snarled at Tully, seemingly undaunted, and then went for him again.

Then it was a blur, both hounds supernaturally fast and agile, with jaws that could crack bone. The fight was a snapping, snarling, rolling free for all, and it was impossible to tell who was winning. Mitchell’s heart was in his throat. What was he going to do if George lost? Mitchell didn’t usually let himself think about consequences, he barely let himself think beyond the end of the day, or of the month at most. Anything more than that could send him spiralling down into the kind of depression that led to... regrettable incidents. And he’d been clean for too long to lose it now - he didn’t want turn back into that monster. Not to mention that he would lose his job, be thrown out of Nightshift, or worse.

But Mitchell would only be thrown out – if George’s secret was ever discovered, the pack would tear him to pieces.

There was injury on both sides now. George licked teeth that were stained red with Tully’s blood, and was panting hard, still with a low growl whenever he had breath. Mitchell wished he could hurry them up, but it wasn’t how these things worked. At a glancing sound he looked up and realised they had an audience, Cwn Annwn and their partners were staring down from the top of the wooden staircase, and clustering in the many doorways. It was a very public confrontation – something that had Mitchell’s teeth itching, even as he knew it was necessary. So much for their usual plan of hiding in plain sight. He wished, forlornly, and for the millionth time, that he knew why George had done any of this.

Then there was a yelp, of real pain, the first such sound that either of them had made, and Mitchell snapped his attention back to the fight. George had his jaws clamped in Tully’s ruff and was bearing him down to the floor. Tully was scrabbling for purchase and not finding any - the thick carpet would never be quite the same after having the claws of a Cwn Annwn desperately raking through it. Mitchell tasted metal and salt, a thick heavy taste that was like an itch in his mouth, and realised that in his fear and excitement he had bitten his tongue. He swallowed anyway, the liquid that trickled down his throat a far cry from what he really craved, another’s blood hot on his lips. He shook his head to clear the image, hoping the desire would go with it, knowing that it wouldn’t. Mitchell was desperate to get away from this, the one part of his partnership with George that he couldn’t handle easily, but knowing that he couldn’t leave George here alone. This was the only part of their lives together that he had never learned to cope with, and George knew that, yet he’d still provoked the fight last night.

Mitchell sucked in a huge breath that he wouldn’t use, his body’s old habits dying hard. It wasn’t George’s fault. He had his instincts, just as Mitchell had his own. Then he blinked. The whole world had a tinge of red to it now, and every living creature had an aura flickering from them, like a heat haze. Mitchell licked lips that felt too dry. This was crazy - he’d not lost control to this extent for years...

The fight was slowing down, as both combatants tired. Mitchell blinked again and time stretched out far too long, each second a slow hour, until finally there was a final despairing howl, low and choked off as George seized Tully’s throat and squeezed it relentlessly in his jaws. He should let him go now, Mitchell thought, his thoughts disjointed and sluggish, I should make him, he mustn’t kill anyone, that’s not acceptable, he’s got to stop. And wasn’t there another reason to hurry? Mitchell took, or rather staggered, a step forward. George rolled one golden eye from his position straddling Tully, but didn’t let him go. He didn’t release him until he was limp and unmoving beneath him, but still breathing, Mitchell realised distantly, and only then did George allow his jaws to unclamp, and to rise up and let his triumph be heard in an ululating cry.

The other Cwn Annwn joined in, acknowledging George’s victory, and his supremacy in the pack - because it was his pack now, as simple as that, to order and rule as he saw fit. Until the next challenge, at least. Mitchell knew he should be more disapproving of the risk George had taken, but he couldn’t help but smile. George had won! Despite the trouble he suspected was coming their way, Mitchell was so proud of him.

He took another step forward, until suddenly his legs were bumping into George’s side, and Mitchell was clutching at his ruff like it was a lifeline. He could smell that sharp adrenaline fug of athletic dog, and a tinge of his own cold sweat, and the blood. Over all of it he could smell the blood.

Then he was moving, his hands dug deep into George’s fur, stumbling forward before he was even aware of it, George tugging him towards the Door. Mitchell was barely in charge of himself, but he was grateful in some distant part of his mind that one of them at least was still acting rationally.

No-one tried to stop them leaving. Not this time.

***

There was the scent of growing things, smelling green in Mitchell’s nostrils, cool and welcoming. The air was full of moisture, none of the slightly stale perfume of Headquarters, and Mitchell realised that he was in one of their special places, brought via the Door and through a Doorway that he supremely hoped no other member of Nightshift had ever found. This was the middle of the Forest of Dean, and once, long ago, hardly even a fading tang in the atmosphere any more, a Cavalier had once crawled out here to die.

It had been a noise that had brought him out of his stupor, Mitchell thought, the echo of it was still making his nerves jump, and now the blood-mists were beginning to clear, he could begin to think again, at least in a limited way. And then it came again, a scream, as though from an animal in such pain it was barely able to articulate its misery. Mitchell swayed then, desperately trying to work out where the noise was coming from, before beginning to tear through the trees towards it, branches slapping at his leather coat, and catching in his hair.

Mitchell had run a long way before he found him. George. His partner and his friend. Among other things.

George had finished the transformation before Mitchell arrived in the little secluded dell, and he didn’t quibble, because he knew that was the way George preferred it. George was ashamed of what happened to him every month, even though rationally he knew he couldn’t help it, and that it wasn’t his fault - he’d been cursed through unhappy accident, that was all. But Mitchell knew that he was ashamed nonetheless, and tried to do all he could to help George cope through the one night every month that the change occurred. They had a routine now, after all this time, and several secret hideaways that they kept stocked with supplies.

Mitchell didn’t try to approach the stricken figure lying on he ground, or at least not empty-handed. He went to the nearby rotten tree bole and pulled out a waterproof canvas bag before raiding it for the blanket it contained. Mitchell grabbed a handful of chocolate bars too, knowing that George’s energy desperately needed to be replaced. It took such a toll on his body, not to mention his mind, that Mitchell’s heart ached in sympathy every time.

He went over to George and crouched beside him, tenderly wrapping the blanket around his naked form. There were streaks of unmentionable fluids coating George’s arms and legs, but as ever, Mitchell didn’t care, and with the blood-rage still hovering, like a crimson veil in his mind, he barely even noticed. George was shivering, like he always did after transformation, and he turned towards the warmth the blanket represented - and not Mitchell, of course not, since he didn’t have the body warmth he’d had when he was alive. It didn’t mean that Mitchell couldn’t appreciate the gesture though, didn’t mean that it wasn’t also Mitchell that George was turning to, since he wasn’t as insecure as all that, not after all they’d been to one another.

It did mean that this was the only time he could show how he felt properly though. Mitchell tried not to think about their situation the rest of the month, of how fucked up it all was, of how George’s secret was really both of theirs, and of how much he missed him, when George was right there all along, and in his true form. Mitchell was a very selfish person. He couldn’t help it, he was glad that George’s curse couldn’t be lifted - as far as they knew. If he couldn’t have this, ever again, he wasn’t sure he could cope - he wasn’t sure his willpower would hold. He _needed_ George.

Carefully, Mitchell ran a hand over George’s hair, just lightly stroking the sweat-matted brown strands. He didn’t know why George looked like this as a human, pale and muscular, with short brown hair, when his canine form was pure Cwn Annwn - perhaps it was part of the curse? But it didn’t matter. Mitchell loved this George, everything about him, from the hollows of his hip bones, to the slight swell of his soft belly. From his shoulder blades, pointed and soaring like wings, to the sweet rise of his cock, lying half-hard against one tense thigh. He leaned forward, not wanting to disturb, but wanting to be closer, to breathe in the forest scent of George, his animal muskiness, which was different and more exciting now, after his transformation, then at any other time. It was intoxicating, overlain as it was this time with the scent of George’s blood. He was transformed, but some things remained the same, and his injuries had transformed with him. They weren’t very serious, Mitchell was relieved to see - and it was easier to tell without all the fur in the way.

George moaned a little then, and Mitchell clutched him closer, cradling him in his arms, and smiling at him as George came back to consciousness. One eye opened a crack, then rolled a little in self-deprecation and embarrassment, as usual. George hated that Mitchell saw him like this, hated that he became so helpless when usually it was George protecting Mitchell. And Mitchell didn’t know how to tell him that he loved George as a human, with his hints of vulnerability under a veneer of bravado, with his insecurities on show; something that seemed an almost fragile relationship compared to the heavy basic friendship he had with his Cwn Annwn partner. The love was always there, of course, but it was different. So very different.

George reached an arm out from his blanket to snag a chocolate bar, and Mitchell closed his eyes as the rich aroma of chocolate joined the metal/sweat/musk cocktail that was making him so happy and so frustrated all at the same time. He only opened them again at a gentle touch to his face, George’s soft palm lightly cupping his jaw.

“Hey, what is it?” George asked, his voice higher pitched than Mitchell’s but rougher, as though it was rusty and unused, which Mitchell supposed it was.

He opened his eyes and turned to face him, watching him through the haze of his hunting eyes, and George gasped, then grinned, wicked now. Laughing.

“Blood-mist is it? Your eyes are blacker than a goblin’s jockstrap.”

“Something like that,” Mitchell muttered, leaning into the feel of George’s hand on his skin. It was so hot, so full of life.

“Yeah, well. You’re not the only one. Not exactly blood-mist, but close enough. I bloody well did it, Mitchell! I beat that cocky bastard - I won!”

And as simply as that, they were both laughing, euphoric in the face of almost certain doom. Mitchell felt as though his pulse was beating in his throat, which was impossible, so maybe he was only reflecting George, wonderful George. And George was throwing his arms around Mitchell’s neck, and then he was pushing at them both until they were giggling helplessly and rolling over and over, the blanket trapped between them, until they rested at last in an utter tangle, with George on top, his legs resting naturally in the cradle of Mitchell’s hips, smiling down at him in delight.

And then, at last, _finally_ , he lowered his lips to Mitchell’s and kissed him, biting a little, because he knew Mitchell liked it. And Mitchell surged up into the kiss, clasping George closer with one arm, the better to grind them together, to hear the start of George’s moan pushing into his mouth and pushing back, just as hard, desperate for every inch of George’s skin against his own. There were still far too many clothes even though one of them was naked. Every second it took for him to strip gloves, shirt, t-shirt, and jeans, was a second too long away from his George, who smelled so delicious, who was his friend, and partner, and who felt like life and warmth, and everything that Mitchell had ever abandoned in another life.

They only had until dawn. It was never enough. Even as Mitchell rutted against George, reaching down between their bodies to take them both in hand, cocks slippery with sweat, George hot and heavy and new made, even then, Mitchell had begun to count the hours they had together, had already begun to mourn them. But he was a vampire. Perhaps it was inevitable - his was a species who were made for regret, who were born in blood and pain and death. Mitchell could feel his orgasm rushing at him already, with all the inevitability of the tide, or the moon. Mitchell hurriedly bent and suckled at George’s skin, kissing down his neck, before pausing at the juncture with his shoulder, where his ruff would be in canine form. Where Tully had bitten him at least once, and the delicious smell of blood was strongest. He buried his lips and tongue there, tenderly lapping at the blood, tasting and smelling and being surrounded by George, only George, and when he could hold it back no longer, muffling his cry in George’s shoulder, his fangs descended and grazing the skin, but not giving in to that final millimetre. Even as his release spread warm between them, and his hand grew slack, George reached down and squeezed Mitchell’s hand in his own fist, onto both their cocks, and so it was still both of them that rode out George’s final seconds before he too came with a cry, high and keen, like a wolf.

They were sticky and filthy and lying on a woodland floor all covered with leaves, but Mitchell didn’t care. As soon as he felt capable of moving, he pushed himself off George, so as not to crush him, until he was lying flat on his back and could see up through the flickering leaves above him. He reached out a hand until he found George’s strong grip, and then folded his fingers around it, letting his index finger uncurl and rest on the pulse point. Feeling George’s heart beating.

Mitchell heard a soft chuckle then, just louder than the breeze, and turned his head towards it. George squeezed their joined hands.

“Bloody hell, I swear that gets better every time.”

And Mitchell grinned, at his most wide and blinding, feeling his heart too full for more.

“Wait an hour or two and I’ll show you something better - technically you’re a virgin right now. And I want to show that virgin arse of yours a few tricks.”

“Ooh, promises, promises - old man.” George giggled like a boy, all filthy glee, and Mitchell loved it. He began to roll over, planning to teach him a lesson, since people who were as ticklish under the ribs as George happened to be, shouldn’t tease other people. Just because a bloke might have seen the turn of a couple of centuries, didn’t make him _old_.

And then there was a soft pop, as gentle as a soap-bubble bursting, and three sets of eyes were staring at each other in consternation, before one of them, in very short order, flinched away, leaving the person they were attached to blushing rosily.

“I didn’t know ghosts _could_ blush,” George offered, conversationally, and Mitchell shrugged. He was too bemused to be annoyed, but he had a feeling anger might be on its way. This ghost had no right to be snooping on them, even if George had saved her life. He didn’t even want to think about the amount of power Annie now had over them, if she cared to use it. And it wasn’t much comfort to realise that she probably didn’t even know that yet.

“There’s such a thing as privacy,” Mitchell said, his tone stiff and cold, “I know that in your current condition you can go anywhere, but that doesn’t mean...”

George took his hand again and Mitchell shut up. He knew his eyes had turned black again with the shadows of the blood-mist, he could feel it. He hated that all his emotions were still so close to the surface.

“Could you, umm, I don’t know – maybe put some clothes on?” Annie said at last, sounded almost stifled, “And I’m really, really sorry. I just got bored. No-one would talk to me, and although there was a lot of rushing around, no-one would tell me what was going on. And then I realised that I could still sort of feel George, even though he wasn’t there – and I just... followed the link.” She looked around. “Where is he, anyway?”

Mitchell glanced at George, who grimaced and shrugged. They’d have to tell her – it was possible her casual well-meaning chatter back at Headquarters could drop them in it even further.

“You’re looking at him,” George said, abruptly, “It’s a moon curse – I get to turn human once a month, ok? So clothes are kind of optional.”

Annie laughed, a little nervously, and waved her hands.

“And you two are...together? Once a month you get to... do things. Or maybe not just once a month, who am I to judge? I’m all new to this supernatural life, perhaps it’s all perfectly ordinary; animals, people, ghosts... Or whatever it is that you are, because that thing you do with your eyes is not normal!”

Her own eyes were getting a little wild, and Mitchell noticed the breeze in their forest dell was picking up. She really was shaping up to be the most powerful ghost he’d ever seen.

“I’m a vampire,” Mitchell offered quickly, before she went on some more and gave him a headache. “Not everyone working with the Cwn Annwn is, but enough are.”

“Including our boss,” said George, gloomily, “Herrick.”

Mitchell began tugging his jeans on, and throwing a t-shirt over his head. George wrapped himself in the blanket, toga-style.

Mitchell went on, “And no, none of this is ‘normal’. Look, we’ll get into trouble if you tell anyone – you remember the pack? If they knew George was different, even a hint of it, they’d tear him into pieces, like they nearly did you.”

Mitchell hated pleading and he hated feeling helpless. But he rounded on George rather than letting himself get angry at Annie, and instead he concentrated on organising him, impatiently helping him to tug the blanket into place, before pulling his own belt free and wrapping it around George’s waist. It didn’t look elegant, but it did the job. George batted casually at his hands and exclaimed, “Oi, I can do it – contrary to popular belief I’m not actually a girl. Or a hound either, at least not at the moment - see, actual hands! I just don’t see why you human-types are so bothered by clothes anyway.”

It made Mitchell smile, fond and exasperated in equal measure – that was his George all right, even before the moon curse. He reached out and smoothed down a wayward cowlick despite the protests and George hissed like a kettle coming to the boil . The familiar actions were comforting, and teasing George was always fun. But it had, after all, been a hell of a day.

His fussing was punctuated by a sputter of suppressed laughter from Annie, who he’d almost managed to forget – the ghost seemed to almost fade into the background in that way.

“Sorry, but you two are so sweet together!” Her hands were in front of her face and she was peering at them through her fingers. “I really didn’t mean to interrupt - especially as it seems a shame that you only get one day a month.”

And therein lay the heart of the matter. Mitchell looked at George, to find him looking back. Neither of them seemed comfortable, but Mitchell smiled a little lop-sided smile anyway, and George ducked his head, like did when he was a hound, and looked pleased.

“We take what we can get,” said Mitchell, heavily, at last. And it was true. “Oh, and that reminds me, I’ve got your pentagram here, George.” He reached into his pocket and drew out George’s silver chain, that he kept for him the rest of the month. It was a powerful talisman of concealment, and they used it when George was human and vulnerable. Just in case.

“Thanks.” George drew it over his head, and let it dangle against his naked chest. Mitchell reached out and ran a finger along the silver where it lay snugly next to George’s skin. Annie coughed.

“I’ll just be going now. Leave you to it, and all that.”

And just for a moment Mitchell felt fond of her too. It was so unusual to just be themselves. To be in front of another person who knew everything about them and with no need to hide away. It was almost liberating. He pulled George closer, with one arm around his neck, while the other was still toying with the pentagram, but he found himself smiling at Annie, who tentatively smiled back.

“Yeah,” said George, “We’ll see you back home, right? Look, that reminds me, while I’m still human, I’ve got something I need to ask you...”

“Well, isn’t this touching.”

It was like watching a stone being dropped into a pool of clear water. What was still and calm beforehand became agitated and choppy. Ripples spread and grew, edging outward in waves of emotion, and of action. Mitchell felt himself go light-headed and cold, and George actually growled for all he was in the wrong body. Only Annie actually moved though, spinning around in the air, so speedily and so surprised that the cohesion of her form began to degrade, making her appear like a smoky picture in a high wind.

“Herrick!” George’s fists were clenched and he had bared his teeth just as he did when he faced down Tully. Mitchell held on to him, because he could feel all his muscles tensing, and he didn’t trust George not to fly for Herrick’s throat - and in his present form Herrick would tear him to pieces. Mitchell couldn’t allow that to happen.

Herrick was grinning his most shit-eating grin, the one that made him look just a little bit insane. Even his Cwn Annwn, Seth, had his tongue flopping out of his mouth in a crazed doggy grin.

“Isn’t this nice?” said Herrick, expansively, gesturing around at the whole forest. “A colleague dropping in for a chat with some old friends. And some new ones too, apparently. Although I feel I already know Annie so well. How is Owen? Have you visited him yet? He’s shacked up with some bitch called Janey now, did you know? Do you care?”

Herrick’s voice was rising in volume and pitch as he walked towards Annie, and she was fluttering, her whole manifestation wavering out of focus, like a mirage in a heat wave. Just as Herrick was about to reach her he stopped short, and very deliberately, very calmly, he shouted “Boo!” into her upturned face. She vanished. Winking out of existence like a candle flame. Herrick laughed.

Mitchell saw red. How dare he? How dare Herrick fuck with _their_ ghost? Annie belonged to George - who was head of the pack, no less. Herrick might be their Nest Captain but it didn’t give him the right to come in and treat their people like dirt. Like less than dirt.

Mitchell knew that he was over-reacting, because it wasn’t as though Annie could die like this, from fright. The Cwn Annwn could destroy her, or she go of her own free will to the Other Side. But it wasn’t really Annie that Mitchell was reacting to, or was scared for - it was the man in his arms, the ordinary human bloke with no special powers of any kind, not any more. He would bleed a beautiful red, Mitchell thought, despairing, but he didn’t want to see it, not ever, and certainly not if he could help prevent it. Not even if he had to pray to the gods he’d left so far behind.

“I warn you, Herrick,” he began, “You have no right...”

“Rights!” Herrick laughed again, a little madly, his pale blue eyes opened wide, and his skin flushing a blotchy pink, “You haven’t any rights - look at you! The pair of you - you’re a disgrace. Well, _you’re_ a disgrace, Mitchell - George here is more of an abomination. And I’ve been looking forward to this for a very long time.”

“Look, I don’t know what you mean. This man’s name is Joe...” Mitchell tried, his bravado paper thin, and knowing that George was still tense, even though he was quiet and letting Mitchell do the talking. For now.

“Really?” Herrick asked, “Did you really not know? Well, there’s a thing. And here I thought I’d been so terribly obvious in tracking you down, and that you were being so careful and suspicious for my sake. I’m hurt.”

His round doughy face had been oddly cheerful, but now it turned ugly. “I’m _hurt_ , Mitchell, that you’d prefer to fornicate with a filthy animal then associate with your own kind. That you have chosen to abandon _me_. I selected you specially for this life, and you agreed with my choice - because everyone has a choice, Mitchell, you know that. You remember yours, I know you do. And now you have one more - the choice of watching your... creature die, or of joining me and proving your loyalty once again.”

Herrick let go of Seth’s ruff to rub his hands together as he stared at them, just as a gourmet chef might do upon contemplating a particularly delicious banquet. His eyes slowly bled black until the colour covered the whole eye, and his fangs descended, giving him the look of some kind of demon. Which he was, Mitchell realised, Herrick was so much more of a monster than he himself would ever be, particularly if he could have George at his side, keeping him sane.

“No,” said Mitchell, finally, calm even through the blood-mist, the frenzy it provoked sometimes, completely absent. “I won’t give George up. You’ll have to go through me to get to him.”

Seth growled then, as Herrick dropped his hand back to his ruff in warning. He looked only slightly put out himself, his lip curling in mild disgust. “That’s your decision? It’s a little disappointing. Because for you, Mitchell, I could be a patient man. Please don’t be such a fool.”

Mitchell shifted George behind him, without letting go of him. He was stiff in Mitchell’s arms, passively resisting. Even as he allowed Mitchell to move him, George whispered, “Don’t do this - it’s not the only way. We could run. I could tear Seth to pieces on any other bloody day. He’d never dare face us like this if I wasn’t human.”

But George _was_ human. They wouldn’t be in this situation if George wasn’t human, and Mitchell couldn’t just ignore that, didn’t even want to really. George’s humanity was the most wonderful thing. Not to mention they’d never be able to outrun Seth, and Herrick knew it. It was a nice idea, but George was clutching at straws. Besides, Herrick knew their secret - he’d never let them go now.

Mitchell began to walk forward, purposefully and deliberately. Herrick began to circle, but Mitchell moved with him, not stupid enough to put himself closer to Seth’s jaws than he had to. Conversationally, trying for a distraction although without much hope of its success, Mitchell asked, “How did you find us? Was it George’s talisman? I forgot to put it on him straight away.”

“Oh no,” Herrick grinned, “It wasn’t that. I thought you’d realised - I followed Annie. That was so very convenient, by the way, I thought it might have been a trick. But apparently not. Maybe I was wrong about you, Mitchell.”

The first prickles of anger crept across Mitchell’s shoulders, like spreading goosebumps. It was just bad luck then, that had him about to fight for his life, and George’s. He absolved Annie of any involvement, because Mitchell didn’t think Annie would do anything for Herrick willingly. Of course, no Cwn Annwn could follow another through a Door, but Annie could sense George because they were linked, he’d fought for her and they were bound. And Seth could follow Annie, because any sky dog could easily follow the trail of any ghost. It was just unfortunate - the worst luck in the world.

Oh well. He’d had a good run - in 1918 he’d thought he wouldn’t live out the year. Plenty in his platoon had not. And here he was, still around nearly a hundred years later. He’d had a good life really, a worthwhile job to do, and he’d known love. What more could a man ask for?

He attacked.

Herrick was ready for him, of course, but Mitchell feinted and dodged, using his superior height and reach to gouge great slashing attacks where he could, before dancing out of Herrick’s reach once more. Mitchell was younger than Herrick, and therefore quicker, so it was possible he could tire him out, although vampire physiology didn’t work quite like a human’s did. But it was the only hope he had. If Herrick once managed to grapple with him, Mitchell knew it was all over, Herrick was stronger in close quarters than he was, and his frame heavier. If he pinned him then Herrick could tear his throat out at his leisure. He couldn't let that happen or George would die.

There was a bruise on Mitchell’s chin now, where a flailing roundhouse had caught him, but Herrick too had blood dripping from his cheekbone from Mitchell’s nails, hardened and more pointed than a real human’s. Herrick was snarling, his face distorted, any pretence at the urbane man he usually portrayed gone beyond recognition. Mitchell sidled sideways, looking for an opening, before suddenly becoming conscious of another’s presence behind him, just as George shouted, “Look out!”

He ducked and rolled sideways, before coming face to face with Seth, who had been trying to creep up on him - he was far too cowardly to try anything else. Mitchell stared from one to the other, assessing the situation, trying to think of a clever ruse maybe, anything to help, but it was still impossible odds, facing both Herrick and his hound at the same time. If only Seth hadn’t decided that it was worth risking his sorry hide. Mitchell coughed and spat onto the ground at Herrick’s feet - he refused to give in to despair, that was all. He would sell his life as dearly as he could, if that was the only thing left for him to do.

Then just before Seth sprang - Mitchell could see when his haunches tensed, and braced himself for the blow - George threw up his head and howled. It wasn’t the kind of noise that should ever have left George’s throat, Mitchell didn’t even know his human throat was capable of making it, but Seth was thrown back in his tracks, as though he’d hit a wall. The noise was the warning howl of the pack leader, an ululating keen that was the ultimate sound of Cwn Annwn authority, and it sent Seth reeling, without a blow even being struck. He cowered low to the ground and slunk away, whining, all thoughts of fighting gone. It was in his bones and blood, Mitchell knew, the sound hard-wired - Seth wasn’t strong enough to challenge the pack leader, so he wasn’t strong enough to withstand the cry either. Thank god for instinct. Mitchell would have laughed if he’d had the energy to spare from watching Herrick.

Even Herrick seemed disgusted. He aimed a kick at the departing Seth and growled much like a hound himself when he missed. Instead it meant he whirled back to face Mitchell with new determination, and a new level of anger. Herrick was dressed in the formal way he usually chose; a suit and tie, a black coat. All of it was rumpled and askew, stained in places now, where Mitchell had inconveniently bled on it. They made an incongruous pair, Mitchell thought, absently, his mind a whirl of fragmented images and feelings. He could still smell George on himself, and that was comforting, the smell of his blood mingling with Mitchell’s own.

But he knew he was tiring. Mitchell hadn’t had any solid food for at least the last day, and he hadn’t fed on blood for much, much longer. He was on the wagon and sworn off feeding from humans, after all, like all Nightshift agents, but it seemed to him as though Herrick wasn’t tiring at all. It crossed Mitchell’s weary mind that maybe Herrick hadn’t been abstaining in the same way. If he was to risk an attack like this, hidden away in the woods, there had to be a reason - perhaps it wasn’t just George as abomination that Herrick wanted to destroy, maybe it was more like George as hearty meal that Herrick was interested in.

It didn’t matter. Mitchell had to defeat him, and the rest was only speculation. It was just... that Mitchell was beginning to think that he couldn’t win. That it was impossible. Each blow he dealt, Herrick seemed to brush off. Each time Herrick tried to grapple him, it was getting harder and harder to slip out of his grasp. Mitchell tried a new feint, desperate to try and tear open a vein, at the very least, or an artery if he could, to slow the man down, to weaken him, but he must have misjudged it, and Herrick struck, quick as lightning, grabbing Mitchell by his t-shirt and yanking him into his grasp. It was a parody of a loving embrace, Herrick only interested in holding onto Mitchell long enough to tear out his throat. However much Mitchell strained against him he couldn’t seem to break free, Herrick was as strong as an ox. He could hear George’s voice, as though from a long way away, shouting in anger, high-pitched and despairing, but Mitchell couldn’t spare the attention. Herrick’s fangs were almost grazing his skin. The only thing he could do, which would only put off the inevitable for a few seconds, was to unbalance Herrick, to throw his weight off, maybe even knock him to the ground. They would both be helpless for a few seconds, but Herrick would still have the upper hand.

He did it anyway, deliberately allowing his legs to sag, and then when Herrick was off-balance, shoving hard, sideways, and toppling both of them. Mitchell desperately tried to get away, slithering through the leaves, but Herrick’s grip was like rock; his t-shirt tore a little but not fast enough. Herrick hissed, then caught hold of his hair, dragging him back along the ground towards him, his jaws gaping wide and teeth shining like knives in the moonlight. Mitchell kicked out, and tried to brace himself on the loose forest floor. It didn’t work.

It was a shitty way to go, Mitchell thought, but maybe inevitable. He should have died a hundred years ago on a muddy war-torn battlefield, he had died in a way, and now here he was, on another battlefield, this time maybe losing his life for good. He wished he could say goodbye to George. He wished he could live. He wished...

Herrick’s grip on his hair, on his shirt, was suddenly broken. He was wrenched away taking a hank of Mitchell’s hair with it, and tearing his t-shirt even further. It happened so suddenly that Mitchell couldn’t grasp what was happening. There was a wind battering at his face, like a storm wind, suddenly rising up from nowhere, whipping leaves and twigs into his face. He wiped his eyes as tears streamed from them, squinting into the maelstrom, and then, just as quickly as it had appeared, the freak hurricane winds ceased, like they’d been cut off with a switch, and all was quiet in the forest again.

Mitchell sat up. The stillness was an uneasy one, full of small animals crouching terrified in their burrows, rather than the freshness after a storm. And where was Herrick? Things weren’t over between them, not by a long way. He wouldn’t let a little thing like a freak storm stop him from finishing the job. The first thing Mitchell saw was Annie, standing over him, looking terrified, with her hands held out. Her dark skin looked paler than was normal even for a ghost, and she was trembling slightly, Mitchell could see it in her hands.

The second thing he saw was Herrick, many feet away across the clearing, upright against a tree. That seemed strange, why wasn’t he immediately trying to tear his throat out again? Then Mitchell noticed there was something on his chest, a dark something, like a stick, or a wand. Or perhaps it was more like a low-lying tree-branch that had punctured right through his chest... Mitchell swallowed, watching as thick sticky trails of blood began to bubble from Herrick’s body, from the wound, and from his mouth. Mitchell realised that the crazy man was trying to laugh.

Fascinated and horrified by turns, Mitchell realised he couldn’t leave him there alone. He didn’t trust Herrick not do something to come back from this. So Mitchell dragged himself to his feet, standing for a moment in front of the frozen Annie. He took her hands in his, and quietly said “Thank you.” He stared into her eyes, which only seemed to be capable of watching Herrick’s body where it hung from the tree. He hugged her anyway, briefly, but she didn’t move.

He walked over to Herrick, but stayed well out of his reach. The blood trails were slowing down now, oozing and turning black in the moonlight, and Mitchell could even find a horrified sort of pity in him as he looked at Herrick hanging there. It could so easily have been him. If he didn’t have his partner, and even a new friend who’d stuck by him, who’d saved him, then their roles would have been reversed, Mitchell was certain.

“I’m sorry,” he said, at last, his voice low, not knowing what else to say.

Herrick’s mouth moved in a horrible blood-stained parody of a grin. “No you’re not. But I was right, you know. I should have known.”

“What do you mean?”

“On the wind. I should have sensed the shift in power. In the earth and water, in my bones. Because I was right.”

“I don’t understand,” said Mitchell, aching and unsure, and impatient with Herrick’s theatrics.

“Long live the King,” whispered Herrick, his tone fond, like a father embracing a prodigal son.

And then burst, with a sound like a sigh, his body coming apart into its constituent particles, exploding in a cloud of black powder that slowly dispersed on the gentle woodland wind.

***

“Oh my god. I killed a man. I can’t believe it. Mitchell, I’m a murderer. Although - _is_ it murder? Or was it self-defence? I did save a life - not mine, of course, but I did save you, didn’t I? Would it count in a court of law? Oh - what am I going to do?”

Annie’s last wail was more highly-pitched than George at his most high-strung, and Mitchell winced. He finished wiping himself down in the little stream that ran nearby - the last thing he wanted was to have Herrick’s blood on him any longer than he had to - before getting heavily to his feet and holding Annie gently by the shoulders.

“You did the right thing,” he said, slowly, looking into her anxious eyes. “Herrick would have done the same to me in a second. You _did_ save my life, and I’m very grateful. And there’s no such thing as a court of law for us. As Nightshift - well, we’re it.” He let go of her, and wiped himself down with his torn t-shirt, before throwing it away in the bushes.

“What is it with you and nakedness, anyway?” said Annie, her tone strangled, but closer to her usual cheerfulness, and Mitchell grinned at her.

“Just lucky, I guess.” Then ducked as she aimed a swipe at him.

They walked back to George, who was sitting down, still wearing his blanket, and looking moody. Mitchell went to run his fingers through George’s hair, but he moved his head away at the last minute, and Mitchell only caressed the air. The events of the evening felt a million miles away already, but Mitchell knew that this wasn’t going to be their special place any longer. How could it be? This place would always be tainted by death now. There was a yawning chasm opening up in the pit of his stomach. Perhaps their relationship would be tainted now too. Maybe that’s why George wouldn’t let him touch him?

Mitchell sat down next to him instead and began picking at the loamy ground, digging it up with a little twig, determined to out-wait George. They might be a vampire and a kind of werewolf, but they were still just blokes - neither of them were any good at talking about this stuff. About problems, or feelings. Mitchell tried not squirm as he waited. After a hundred years, you’d think he’d be better at this sort of thing.

Eventually, George bumped his shoulder, and Mitchell bumped it back.

“Sorry,” said George, his voice low. “I just... I hate being helpless. I couldn’t do anything to help you - not one bloody thing. I had to watch while you were nearly torn to pieces, Mitchell. How do you think that made me feel? When I’m... like this - I’m useless.”

“Don’t say that.” Mitchell wanted to reach out more than ever, wanted to wrap George up and never let him go. But he supposed that might be part of the problem. “You’re not useless. I love it when you’re like this. We’re only _us_ , properly, when you’re like this.” He ran his fingers though his hair, in frustration, disordering the filthy mess even more. “Do you know how jealous I am that you get to be human, when I’m never going to feel like that ever again? My god, I’ve nearly forgotten what it’s like to have a heart that beats. To have warm blood running through my veins. I envy you, George, so fucking much.”

George laughed, a little bitterly. “Well, don’t worry, you won’t have anything to envy soon. I hope Annie will be able to help us with that.”

“What? I don’t understand. What do you mean?” Annie appeared from within a tree a few feet away, and stood hovering, wringing her hands.

She really was extremely good at not being noticed when she wanted to be, thought Mitchell. Although it was kind of her to let them have their talk almost privately, for all the bloody good it did.

“Have neither of you wondered why I set all this in motion? Why I stood up to the pack in the first place and rescued Annie? Because this was all my fault, and don’t think I don’t know it.” George wouldn’t look at them, wouldn’t look at either of them. Mitchell found his hand creeping out but pulled it back before he could touch George’s elbow.

“Why, George?” he asked, gently. Annie stared at them both, her eyes huge in her face.

“Because she’s the most powerful spirit that I’ve ever sensed. Even back then, newly born, still weak in your powers, Annie - I could feel it, all the Cwn Annwn could. That’s why now, only twenty four hours later, you were able to destroy Herrick when Mitchell couldn’t. It was why I risked everything to save you.” George turned to Mitchell at last, a pleading expression on his face. “Don’t you see, Mitchell - she can break the moon-curse. I know she can. Don’t you know what that means?”

But Mitchell was reeling at the revelation - why had he not thought of that? He’d been so busy not thinking about the future, just living each month as it came along, that it had never occurred to him that George - a Cwn Annwn with little natural instinct to think past today - could have been planning ahead all along.

“Yes, I get it. I understand.” Mitchell wrenched himself away from George’s side and stood. His heart might have been breaking now, if he had a heart. “It means that you don’t have to be helpless once a month. It means you can go back to being normal. I don’t blame you for that. How could I? Congratulations.”

“ _No_!” George’s cry was agonised, full of pain and frustration both. “You _don’t_ get it, do you?” He jumped to his feet, the blanket slipping dangerously, and seized Mitchell’s hands. “Look, did you mean what you said? About envying me. About us only being _us_ when I’m human. Mitchell, look at me - did you mean it?”

Mitchell looked at George’s broad palms, and strong fingers holding his. He curled his own hands around George’s, and stretched out his index finger until he could feel George’s pulse in his wrist. Like he always did. He swallowed, once, twice, before he could trust himself to speak calmly.

“I’ll miss you, ok? I know you’ll be right there, by my side - but it won’t be the _same_. You can’t laugh at me properly when you’re Cwn Annwn. I can’t tickle you in the same way, or feed you chocolate, or tease you. You can’t... you know. Kiss me and stuff.”

They stared into each other’s eyes, like a pair of idiots - but Mitchell didn’t want to look away first. He loved George, of course he did, but he couldn’t _say_ that, now could he?

“You know,” said Annie, breaking the spell, such as it was, “ _I_ didn’t know vampires could blush?”

And George laughed then, like a hyena, his stupid braying high-pitched giggle, but all shaky, as though with relief, as though he hadn’t been quite sure...

Mitchell threw his arms around George and squeezed him tight. George was protesting, and laughing, and complaining all in one breath. There was moisture forcing itself out of the corner of Mitchell’s eye, but it was probably the wind so he ignored it. “Sorry,” he whispered into George’s ear, “I know it’s selfish but...” And then he buried his head into George’s shoulder so he didn’t have to look him in the eye any more.

“I still want to break the moon-curse,” said George, over his shoulder, and Mitchell tensed, he couldn’t help it.

George slapped him lightly. “Don’t be even more of an idiot than you can help. If you want me to _stay_ human then of course I’ve got to break the damn thing. Annie, will you help us?”

Mitchell shifted, so he could see Annie, but he didn’t let go of George. He never had to let go of George again. He was conscious of a sort of slow-spreading happiness, that he was finding hard to believe in, but couldn’t deny. Herrick was gone, George wanted to stay with him as a human, and if he did, then... well. That changed everything.

“Since I’ve killed a person for you, I’m sure I can handle sorting out a tiny little curse.” Annie was almost breezy about it, and looking tougher somehow, more confident. Being needed seemed to be doing wonders for her self-esteem. Mitchell wondered what her life had been like before, when she was alive.

Annie spread her fingers out, and pantomimed cracking her knuckles. “What do I have to do? I must say, being dead is considerably more exciting than I was expecting.”

George looked slightly unsure all of a sudden, and Mitchell squeezed his arm. He smiled at him fleetingly, and then straightened himself, obviously determined.

“I need something that has never known the touch of moonlight. If I have that, even just to hold once, then the curse is lifted - and I can choose the form that I want to take permanently. Cwn Annwn or human. That’s all. I’ve been researching it.”

Mitchell was confused. “But isn’t that easy? We’ll bribe a goblin to go and get a rock from the centre of the earth.” But George was shaking his head.

“No, it’s not that simple. When the Earth was being formed, nearly every part of it was exposed to moonlight, because the Moon was being formed at close to the same time, and magma oceans move everything around. I’ve thought about this. I think the curse is clever, I think it needs something that has never been in this world, so it can never have been contaminated. And, of course, that’s almost impossible.”

He stared at Annie, who was looking nervous. “I think,” said George, “That I need something from the Other Side.”

“What?” said Annie, “I’m not sure...”

“You’ve seen our Doorways, I know, but ghosts have different Doors, all of their own. I don’t know what’s through them, but I know that hardly anyone ever comes back.” George stared at Annie with an entreating look on his round face. “Only the most powerful of ghosts could go through the Door to the Other Side, and then come back again...”

There was a silence. Mitchell realised he was clutching at George hard enough to bruise, and loosened his grip. Annie was seeming more insubstantial, when just now she’d been more solid. It wasn’t a promising development.

“You don’t have to,” said George, in a small voice. “We can’t make you. I wouldn’t want to.”

“I think,” said Annie, slowly, “That I’m not strong enough. For that.”

Well, that was it then. Mitchell turned away. He let go of George, even though it was the last thing he wanted to do, given they only had an ever-diminishing number of hours left together for this month. Instead, he began picking up stray bits of clothing that George had torn off him. He found one of his fingerless gloves and stood with it in his hand, rubbing the wool between his fingers, staring at nothing. He was a vampire and he should never have forgotten it; happiness, true contentment, all of that rubbish, was alien to his kind. What had he been thinking? Still, the two of them rubbed along ok, didn’t they? Nothing had really changed. Herrick was dead, but George was still a werewolf. Werehuman. Whatever.

“Mitchell. Mitchell...?”

He didn’t want to look at her. Annie’s tone was plaintive. Mitchell got the impression she might have been calling his name for some time. He looked over his shoulder, not trusting himself to offer more. She was looking earnest, serious in her intent. Her dark brown eyes were shining with sincerity.

“Yet. You didn’t let me finish. I’m not strong enough for that _yet_.”

George came and stood at Mitchell’s other shoulder. He reached out an arm, and laid his palm against the back of Mitchell’s neck. It felt hot against his skin - Mitchell wanted to duck his head into the caress, like it was he who was the hound, and not George at all. Instead he held himself even more stiffly. Then George wrapped his other arm around Annie, bringing them all together into an awkward sort of semi-hug. He was looking so eager, Mitchell thought.

“She’s only a day old - give her time.” George was so excited, it made Mitchell want to smile - in spite of himself. “We’re going to be such a good team, I just know it.”

“And I need to learn so much - all about your world, and whether I can join the Nightshift officially, how I can kick Afterlife arse... All sorts of things!” said Annie, catching George’s enthusiasm.

“And I’ve got to figure out who’s going to be Nest Captain now Herrick’s gone,” Mitchell couldn’t quite bring himself to be the life and soul of this little party, but he could stop sulking. Maybe.

“It’s going to be brilliant!” said George, and kissed him.

Mitchell stared into his beloved face, his lips tingling deliciously, and then looked across to Annie’s glowing features. He could swear she had actual sparkles in her eyes. Mitchell shrugged, he was the better man, he knew when he was beaten.

“Yeah, alright,” said Mitchell, at last, gruffly, before giving in and hugging them both far too hard. “You win. We’re brilliant.”


End file.
